The Things You Don't Say
by of snow and hearts
Summary: Westchester is the home of the best of the elite, the creme de la creme. If you try to smear their name? Consider yourself as good as dead. Literally. / When Kristen Gregory, a young woman with no money to her name and no connections to speak of, receives a coveted job at Block Novelties, she doesn't realize that it comes with an unwritten contract to keep dangerous secrets.
1. un

Westchester was composed of three types of people, who fell neatly into their separate categories as though they were assigned at birth (which they were).

First, there were those with old money. In this group were the families who had lived in Westchester all their lives. All the way back to their great grandparents, sometimes further, their ancestry could be traced to prove that these people did indeed deserve the finest perks of living in the wealthiest county in the entire United States of America. They usually spent most of their time gossiping about the latest scandal.

Those with new money. In this group were the families who were either Westchester's latest arrivals, or whose linage wasn't prominent back when it mattered. Most of these people had been here their entire lives, but went about their business ordinarily. They parked their shiny Lamborghinis in their five-car garages, slept on their fifteen hundred thread count Ralph Lauren sheets, and sent their children to the best schools without drawing attention to themselves. But some of those people liked to be in the spotlight. Those who went out of their way to make their names known usually _were_ the scandal.

And then there were those with neither. In this group were the families who lived in the apartments on the other side of Briarwood Octavian High School, who squeaked by on scholarships and fundraisers, who enjoyed living in Westchester even though they couldn't reap any of the benefits.

Usually, stories in Westchester centered on those with money, whether old or new. Usually there'd be a falling out, someone would get hurt, and it all made a great lesson to the next idiot who, for some reason, thought they could challenge the social laws of Westchester, New York.

Our story centers on a girl with nothing.

* * *

><p>Croquet was the most popular outdoor pastime among the ladies of Westchester, right up there with sitting in a tight circle, shooting down their peers or destroying others with a word and a snapping of fingers.<p>

Usually, the daughters would play alone, taking time off between turns to giggle and share gossip. But today, their mothers had decided to participate too.

Delicately, Mrs. Hurley tapped her indigo colored ball through a white wicket and repositioned herself to make her next play. She brandished her mallet, but the curve swung wide, hitting Mrs. Block's ball with enough force to send it careening backwards three feet.

"Clarissa!" Kendra admonished. "Did you really feel the need to do that?"

Mrs. Hurley giggled like a schoolgirl. "Another try for me!" she declared happily.

Croquet was played on the Harringtons' front lawn, mostly because they lived on a busy street directly off of Aldridge Road, the main avenue that cut directly through all of Westchester. The regular puffs of exhaust and the occasional burst of loud music that would issue from an open window were worth the publicity, the newspaper articles with the headlines that would tell the public how the women of Westchester were still friends, that they had not lost any of the power that would usually dwindle with time.

"I forgot to tell you!" Mrs. Rivera exclaimed after Mrs. Hurley had finally finished her turn.

The mothers tucked their smooth, colored locks behind their ears and widened their eyes, turning to face the woman who had spoken.

Nadia Rivera was somewhat of an anomaly. Like the other women, she had roots in Westchester. In fact, hers probably went back further than many of the others', which was probably why she was accepted at all.

Way back when, a man named Felipe Rivera gained permission from the Spanish king to become what was basically the landlord of the entire area where Westchester stood now. Felipe rose in fame, until his name was plastered on banners, his picture hung on the walls of every loyal home. As generations passed, and Felipe Rivera died, his memory lived on. His descendants carried on the name of Rivera. When the British gained easy control of New York, they called the county Westchester and appointed a mayor. But the people never forgot about Felipe.

Len, Nadia's husband, was a very distant descendant of the family Felipe had started in Spain, before leaving for America and having children there. But he also had the last name Rivera. So when he moved back to Westchester with his wife, they were both greeted with fanfare and love. Because of Nadia's popularity, the old money families really had no choice except to include her. And now the Riveras were one of them.

"Emmy Fisher's son is engaged!"

"Harris?" Mrs. Abeley questioned. "You can't be serious."

"As a heart attack," Mrs. Rivera replied, unzipping her olive green Tonello blazer and handing it off to a helpful maid. "And he'll be coming back here for the wedding."

"Will we have to go?" The words came from Massie Block, the first of the second generation to participate in the conversation since the croquet game had begun.

It wasn't surprising that she'd spoken before the other daughters. Massie Block was the only child of William and Kendra, the unspoken leaders of Westchester. William Block was the sole owner of Block Novelties, a large business firm that was supposed to be researching healthy, Earth friendly ways of producing energy and really just polluted the rivers and lakes of New York even more than they were before. William came home with an easy two million a year, and his higher workers made a six figure annual base. His wife, Kendra, ran the scene at home, donating most of the money to charity and using the rest to keep herself, her daughter, her house, and her life picture perfect. As the only Block of the younger generation, it was up to her to lead her friends.

Kendra laughed gently and shot an apologetic glance at Mrs. Rivera. "They haven't even sent out invitations, darling."

Everyone knew that they would each receive one, though. It would be in a pale blue envelope (_the_ color of the season), and the words would be written in curly bronze letters, inviting everyone who was anyone to come and, of course, to bring as many guests as they pleased.

The Fishers were new money, and as a result, the parents probably wouldn't be bothered with attending. When their children were younger, that usually meant that the second generation could be spared the excruciating boredom of sitting through the formal ceremony and even fancier reception. But now it meant that they would be sent in their mothers' and fathers' stead. It was common courtesy.

"It could be fun," Nadia's daughter, Alicia, murmured in Massie's ear. "Maybe there will be some interesting people there."

"I doubt it," muttered Layne Abeley. Back when they were in school, Layne had been viewed as a rare occurrence in the perfect world of Westchester: an old money girl who didn't believe in social norms. But after spending her junior and senior years of high school at a boarding academy somewhere in France, Layne had returned with a level of unprecedented class and an even more unexpected naughty streak.

"What about their younger son?" Mrs. Hurley said lightly. "Does he have a girl?"

"Cameron?" Nadia crinkled her forehead in thought. "You know, I'm not really sure."

"He was always wild," Mrs. Block commented. "I hope he doesn't think it's okay to show up with a . . . _flower child_ on his arm."

Mrs. Hurley laughed. "Let's just hope he doesn't show up with a man."

* * *

><p>Kristen Gregory entered the room hesitantly. Thursdays were meeting days at Block Novelties, and the big shots of the company, sometimes even including Mr. Block himself, used this day to gather in the biggest board room over mugs of coffee and argue over their next merge, or whether or not to downsize, or how much money they were spending on projects. Today was no different.<p>

Armed with a pot and nine cups, Kristen set up shop at the side table she normally used. "Coffee, anyone?" she inquired loudly.

"It's too much!" one of the executives shouted. He was a large man, with a bright red face. Today, he was attired in a powder pink shirt with one too many of his buttons undone, granting the entire room a free glance down his shirt, not that they wanted to see. The air was awkward.

"Thank you, Howard," Mr. Block said. "Anyone else?"

"I think it's worth buying out," the head of marketing declared. "Then we can afford to cover up our steps with better firewalls. There are people who want us investigated, you know. They think . . . "

Mr. Block discreetly jutted his chin towards Kristen and narrowed his eyes. "I know what they think," he responded quickly.

"Completely mistaken, of course," interjected Mr. Fisher, a balding man with bright blue eyes.

"Would anyone like coffee?" Kristen asked again, raising her voice.

"Goodness, dear, no need to shout," murmured the only woman in the room. She was actually one of four ladies who worked at Block Novelties. There were a lot of girls who served food, worked in the kitchen, and took notes at meetings. But only four were actually considered real employees.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Plovert," Kristen muttered. "But - "

"Yes, we would," Mr. Block interjected before things could get out of hand in his meeting room. "Hurry, please, we don't have much time."

Kristen poured her boss his usual cup of steaming black coffee with just a sprinkling of sugar. "Here you are, sir. Anyone else?"

Orders flooded in from the men, and for the next fifteen minutes Kristen was busy handing out mugs and smiling sweetly. The last request came from Mrs. Plovert.

"I'll take mine with a teaspoon of cream. No sugar. No, sweetie, decaf, please."

"Of course, ma'am," she responded.

Mrs. Plovert's grin was predatory. "I have a preposition for you, Kristen, if you'd like to meet me at," she checked her watch, "around two thirty this afternoon?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, Kristen."

* * *

><p><em>review, sweethearts?<em>


	2. deux

Across the country, Cameron Fisher ran a callused hand through his messy, pitch black hair and squinted at his roommate. _"Huh?"_

"Your _cell phone_," Landon repeated, his tone making it clear that this wasn't the first time he'd said it. "At _six in the morning_."

"Fuck," he slurred distractedly. "My_ brain_ hurts."

The ringing died off, then started up again immediately.

"Hello?" Cam demanded blearily.

"It's your mother," Emmy Fisher told her younger son.

"Hey, Mom. Did I ask you to be my alarm? Am I forgetting about something?" He sat up in bed, pulling a pillow across his toned abdomen.

"No, Cam. I actually have some very good news."

"Can't it wait a couple of hours?"

Cam was one of the very few Westchester children who traveled farther than a state or two to go to college. And he was one of the even fewer who didn't leave because of a major scandal. He just hopped on a plane and flew off, like Westchester was never for him to begin with.

A lot of the new money families had talked about it. The summer of 2011 had been exceedingly long, extremely boring, and _excruciatingly_ hot. When Cam had left, it had given everyone something to speak of.

The ladies had gathered in groups on shaded porches. Judi Lyons, Mrs. Fisher's best friend, was over most often, chattering on about how much she _wished_ her daughter had taken a chance and just gone to Stanford (which had accepted Claire on full scholarship) instead of Cornell (in upstate New York, only three or four hours away and easy driving distance) but everyone knew it wasn't true. Westchester parents preferred to keep their children as close to home as possible, within their protective little bubble, where they could hold the reins.

Thinking about all this made Emmy Fisher angry. She knew that Judi had only uttered those comments to make her feel better. Emmy was mad at Judi for pitying her, mad at Westchester for making it so that she had to apologize when her ambitious son flew to California, and most importantly, mad at herself for secretly wishing that she could just have her kid back home where he belonged.

Her words came out with a snap. "Get over yourself, Cameron," she huffed. "This is _important_."

Cam reached down and grabbed his yellow UCLA shirt off the floor, pulling it over his head, taking his sweet time in replying. He had always delighted in antagonizing people, playing games with them. It was one of his specialties. "Although my life would not feel woefully incomplete if I did not hear this astonishing news, I have the sad feeling yours might be. Please, pray tell."

He lifted a smudged glass of water to his lips, which did nothing to quell his splitting headache.

"Your brother is getting married, and we expect you to come back for the wedding."

Cam coughed, spewing liquid out of his mouth and spraying it onto his duvet. _"Married? Harris?"_

"And you say your life would not have been woefully incomplete."

"Who's he marrying?" he demanded.

"Why don't you call him?" Emmy suggested with a smirk Cam could not see but could sense just the same. "Maybe if you two actually _communicated_ you'd know." She paused for a moment. "Love you, honey. I'll mail you a plane ticket."

Before he could respond, the dial tone was echoing in his ear.

* * *

><p>There was an atrocity outside Helen Plovert's office in the form of an enormous, gilt framed mirror with clear glass and her initials painted in black on the upper right corner. It was ugly and repulsive and took up way too much space and was impossible to clean.<p>

But for the first time, Kristen Gregory was glad it was there. Looking into her own piercing blue eyes, she smoothed her pleated Kenzo miniskirt and checked her makeup one last time.

A meeting with Helen Plovert was no small deal.

Coughing quietly, she knocked on the door. It swung open immediately, revealing an immaculate office, decorated with rich wooden furniture and a pale pink woven carpet with expensive, tasteful accents.

Suddenly, her two hundred and twenty dollar skirt and gorgeous white sandals felt childish and embarrassing. Managing to raise her eyes to meet Mrs. Plovert's, she choked out, "It's two thirty, ma'am. You wanted to see me?"

"I'll see what I can do," the woman declared firmly into the phone. "No, Mr. Molton, we have nothing against you. It's simply a matter of principle - Kristen! . . . No, Mr. Molton, may I call you back later? . . . Okay, sounds great, thank you . . . Yes, sir, goodbye." She hung up the phone immediately and spun her chair around to face Kristen.

"I . . . " Kristen meant to say something intellectual and professional, but words failed her.

Mrs. Plovert wore a Dolce and Gabbana pencil skirt with a knit sweater that accented her clear skin and flawless frame. With her sharp white heels, she towered over Kristen both in height and power. "As I said, I have an offer for you. Please, darling, sit."

Kristen fell into the nearest chair, which happened to be across the room from Mrs. Plovert's desk. But it would be too weird to move now.

Mrs. Plovert paced as she spoke. "I've been looking for an assistant for a little while now. Not a secretary, mind you, but an assistant. Granted, it would be a lot of busy work, and mostly you would be typing and filing. But this promotion would come with company benefits, which you are not . . . lacking in need for, if I may be so frank."

"Yes, ma'am," Kristen muttered. Her face was burning. She couldn't bring herself to look up.

"So will you do it?"

"Yes, I'd love to." She was acutely aware that her cheeks remained bright red, but she managed to stand and shake hands.

* * *

><p><em>okay. filler. i'm sorry. next chapter will be much more interesting. review, please! also, could you vote for the poll on my profile? i think i know who harris will marry, but i'd love some more opinions!<em>

_lena_


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